1. Red Rum (old poem revised)

    You close my eyes

    but I never get any rest,

    try to slow the ticking in my head,

    the beast pounding in my chest.

    I swear I’m in love,

    you fill that hole, scratch that itch

    when you touch me there, so touch me there

    right above the wrists.

    Death is on your tongue

    but you’ll always have me licked

    my five feet five inches

    fell for your six.

    I feel you slipping under my skin,

    spitting in my blood,

    the prick of your kiss

    feels an awful lot like love.

    These days, this is as good as it gets

    and I’m as good as gone

    but it’s so good to be that way

    when I have you in my arms.

    A spoonful of sugar

    just won’t get it done

    nothing is as sweet

    as the burn of your red rum.

    ©Jenna Allie


  2. Best Friends means…

    There were supposed to be no secrets here.

    This was never a place for what we were,

    always who we were becoming, together.

    Maybe that was my flaw,

    believing we were in this together.

    You were the one

    I called when I held that blade to my skin

    you were the one

    who took every sharp object out of my room

    and refused to give them back until months after.

    You sat through an entire meal with me

    while I chewed like that hamburger was sawdust

    and when I couldn’t stop crying

    you let me sleep all night with you

    in your twin sized bed.

    So what was I supposed to do

    when I woke up to that message?

    I don’t know what I was supposed to do,

    but I’ll tell you what I did;

    I threw my phone across the room

    and cried like I haven’t since I was 16,

    with a morning stomach

    dry heaving over the side of my bed.

    I know you think I cry a lot

    and we laugh about sometimes

    but this was different

    and I’m glad nobody had to see it,

    it was an ugly, snot-filled cry.

    What should I have done?

    I’ll tell you what I did;

    I curled up in your twin sized bed

    looking at the pictures on your wall,

    and that card I wrote you when we first became friends.

    We were supposed to be in this together.

    You weren’t supposed to go back to that,

    I don’t want to think of you

    with dirt in your blood,

    with a needle in your arm.

    Everyone says its nothing personal,

    and I trust in God, I do

    but when the day ends

    and my body slows

    as my thoughts race,

    how the fuck am I not

    supposed to take this


    ©Jenna Allie


  3. New blog I’m starting of primarily just my writing, please support! It’ll be up and running in a few days.


  4. I always marvel at the humans’ ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.
    — The Book Thief (Markus Zusak)

    (Source: wordsthat-speak, via judahuda)


  5. (Source: tsktsks, via judahuda)



  7. oxlips:

    untitled by anneparker on Flickr.

    Here would be nice

    (via wethinkwedream)



  9. On Dating Heroin Addicts

    I hadn’t been awake long enough

    to see this side of tragedy,

    silver linings were for fools

    who had to believe in something

    just to give their sorrow meaning.

    I swore I’d never be that foolish.

    I slept curled up with my misfortunes,

    my ribs cradling the ache in my gut,

    with eyes heavy, rolling like stones

    to hide away from everything

    this world had done to me. 

    My eyes are open enough today

    to see you are not well

    and there is pain

    in watching those you love

    circle the rabbit hole

    like a wedding band

    clanking around a drain.

    And an even greater ache

    comes from knowing there is nothing

    this body can do for you,

    that my unapologetic skin

    could never hold you tight enough

    to make you believe

    that you fit inside your own.

    I hadn’t been awake long enough

    to see this side of tragedy

    but today my ribcage opens up

    like shutters for the winter sun

    when warmth comes unexpectedly.

    Even in the light my heart still holds worry

    just as sunbathing serpents still hold venom

    no matter how docile they may seem.

    Against all odds

    this heart pumps clean blood

    and despite all I have done to this world

    my pulse pounds steadily, proudly

    like the sore soles of a soldiers feet

    as he finally marches home.

    ©Jenna Allie



  11. When I loved myself enough, I began leaving whatever wasn’t healthy. This meant people, jobs, my own beliefs and habits - anything that kept me small.
    My judgement called it disloyal. Now I see it as self-loving.
    — Kim McMillen   (via bluishtigers)

    (Source: yagazieemezi, via bluishtigerrs)


  12. We gotta start teaching our daughters to be somebodies instead of somebody’s.
    — Kifah Shah  (via anderlynn)

    (Source: ivicus, via internal-acceptance-movement)


  13. cherry-and-also-bomb:


    (Source: interinspiration, via 24x18)


  14. If I am to ever lay beside you

    you must see me as I am,

    all of me.

    see me as the freckle faced child

    precocious and raspy voiced,

    terrified of everything.

    see the gangly preteen

    with a bone structure

    that would someday fall

    neatly into place


    for the moment,

    looked awkward and perhaps

    a little masculine,

    terrified of everything.

    see me as the malnourished teenager

    with translucent skin

    and sunken eyes,

    terrified of everything.

    see me as the woman lying beside you

    still slightly freckle faced

    with high cheekbones

    and skin riddled with scars,

    still afraid sometimes,

    I’m still afraid sometimes.

    ©Jenna Allie


  15. When I was seven I used to divide love into
    little compartments, categories if you’d like.
    There was the filial love, romantic love,
    the love we have for objects, places, pets.
    For the colour blue. For olives.
    But I realised labels are just something other
    people use to sort out how you fit into their lives -
    and I don’t buy it.
    There must be a love that reminds people
    of ropes, the harbour, wrists and bottle shops:
    the your hand over my hand and a comforting
    smile accompanied by warm feelings, love.
    The “I want to kiss you at every stoplight
    with Autumn’s dreamy static between us” love, the
    “we’ve been doing this for too long now”,
    kind of love, so hurt me, ruin me, thrill me,
    I want to feel something new.
    A brewing love, a burning love, a taste of nostalgia
    between the sheets, between the thighs,
    tingles underneath the skin.
    The “Lets hide under the covers
    with no one watching”, love.
    A hunger, a thirst. A three shots of vodka
    and lime type of love. A smile blending
    the colours of your skin until my vision
    is all blurred around the edges, love. Lust:
    “I want to leave you but the sex is too good” love,
    the fake orgasm love, the agonizing thrill of puppy love.
    The he asks you “How could you only be
    a collection of cells?” and you reply,
    “Impossible that you’re only seventy percent water”,
    disbelief aspect of love.
    “I’m going to trace your hip like a crime scene” love.
    A “bury me, bury me between the sheets,
    bury me under six thousand layers of sea,
    bury me in the backyard grave underneath
    the leaves with the stars clear and
    bright” love. Don’t grip onto love
    like a life line, it will only feel
    suffocated and find every way to dodge your call
    and hide from you in the grocery store.
    Don’t ring love in a telephone booth at some ungodly hour,
    half asleep and blind drunk;
    unless you know in your heart
    you would do so without the help of
    a fifth of vodka and half a joint.
    Then you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.
    Know what to let love breathe,
    to hold it at an arm’s length, to let it
    roam and observe it objectively. Don’t shape it
    into what you desire, instead
    slip the moon under its skin
    and prick holes to let the light through.
    Know when to reel it so closely it could pass
    as a second skin, know when to
    drape a honey blanket around its shoulders
    and hold it close till morning.
    You must know when to let
    it go, and do so selflessly, to hand it
    a plane ticket knowing it’ll travel across a
    bunch of state lines and
    never look back. Throw its new address in the bin
    with the letters, voice mails, the promises.
    Even love’s tooth brush must go. When
    handed love on a silver platter, devour
    with no fork of spoon. Not even fingers are allowed.
    Waste it, squeeze it until it’s like getting blood
    out of a stone, until it is blood, pulsing
    and passionate and tragic. Let it swallow you up.
    Sink in it. Submerge yourself in the clear water
    until you’re lying flat on the bottom
    of the ocean under a thousand layers
    of sea like the broken hull of a ship wreck
    looking up at the stammering, shimmering surface.
    Living with love is like being trapped
    in a burning building with the walls turning
    to ash around you, and living without love
    is like eating eggs without salt. Useless.
    And yet, with all its violent ecstasy,
    love can knock the wind
    out of you and just as you’re about to stand,
    kick you in the shins until you double over again.
    About sixty percent of the time,
    it will be on the verge of disaster.
    It can treat you like spare change and dirt,
    like truck fumes and musty dust in the attic.
    You might find yourself split in two
    and crumbling along the edges,
    burnt around your outline with a
    bitter clump of ash at the core.
    Go out and look at the purples plums
    on the backyard vine, the ripe, the swollen,
    the battered, the tender, the rotten.
    Know that you tasted as many as you could.
    — (via contramonte)

    (via thespiritualslut)